December 29, 1999
by ACleverName
Summary: Why Grace had her pager on at "Madam Butterfly" in the TV movie.


It was the first uncomplicated sit-down restaurant meal since the weekend after Thanksgiving. Grace had managed to get Thanksgiving and the Friday after off; as a cardiologist at Walker General Hospital, she really had her pick of the major public holidays. She'd been between boyfriends, however, for so long that it took a real effort of will not to volunteer to work Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year's Eve. She didn't have a family, not children, anyway; what scattered friends and family who still sent cards with cardinals in snow or reindeer in the North Pole might rotate with their invitations to spend Christmas with them: in San Luis Ibispo or Milwaukee or Prince Edward Island. Occasionally, she accepted. But mostly she didn't. Holidays were something that were important in the abstract, but she never seemed to have time for them.

But yes, in 1999, she had accepted the invitation to go to her cousin's house, just down the coast. This had led to an argument with her boyfriend Brian, for whom the holidays meant more, and who was already taking down boxes of decorations in anticipation of the Friday after Thanksgiving when, in his family, the tree most decidedly i_went up_./i "I didn't realize you'd get Thanksgiving off," he muttered to a dusty holly wreath of green and red plastic. "You didn't last year."

Grace had tried to be diplomatic and understanding. "I didn't last year because I'm just not used to having the typical Thanksgiving. When you're a product of so many years of medical school and residency and—"

Brian gave the distinct impression he'd heard all this before. "I've already said I'll fly to Cincinnati to my parents'."

"You know, honey," said Grace, taking the holly wreath from his curled up fingers, "that's fine."

"But we really should be together on Thanksgiving," he went on.

"I don't even like turkey," said Grace, trying to cobble together a smile. Brian frowned at her. On the tip of his tongue seemed to be something like "You really don't get it, do you?" "You're back the weekend after, right?" she said brightly.

He nodded. "I'll fly back for Sunday afternoon. I have to be back in the office for Monday." Brian was a defense attorney. The word at the office was law, and yet he seemed to have so little understanding of being on call.

"Let's have a mini-Thanksgiving on the Sunday. Just the two of us."

Brian got up from the floor where he had been kneeling next to the cardboard box of Christmas decorations. "I don't think I'll be up to cooking." Brian did most of the cooking in their house. He had nearly missed going to culinary school.

"Let's go out to eat. There's an amazing new Vietnamese restaurant . . ." Grace trailed off. "Or we can have something more traditional, if you want."

In the end, she had gotten him to agree. Despite the inauspicious beginning, Grace felt slightly vindicated because Brian had agreed to the Vietnamese—he seemed shell-shocked by the visit to his in-laws' and craved some quiet and autonomy. When he had phoned her at her cousin's in San Luis Ibispo between the serving of the pumpkin pie and settling down to watch football on TV, he had been in raptures about all his nephews and nieces. By the time they were drinking green tea at the restaurant the Sunday after, she could read firmly between the lines: Brian did not want children.

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The whirlwind of the holidays had passed. Grace had been on call Christmas Eve but not Christmas Day. As it turned out, Christmas Eve had been very quiet at Walker General—Brian had popped the cork of her favorite pinot noir and they had settled together to watch i_It's a Wonderful Life/i _on network TV. i_It's a Wonderful Life/i _had little charm for Grace—she was always near sleep by the time the angel Clarence actually showed up—but she preferred it to Brian taking down his red-bound copy of Dickens, which he only cracked open this one night of the year, and taking turns to read passages while they paused their way through the VHS of the black-and-white British version. In fact, they had only gotten to the second commercial break of i_It's a Wonderful Life/i_ when the doorbell rang.

The living room was in fact situated near the glass front of the house, so if Brian hadn't been so absorbed in the TV and Grace hadn't been concentrating so hard on looking interested in the TV, they would have seen the girl at the door before she rang the bell. Brian exclaimed, "Carolers" with a lack of expression that surprised Grace. She'd been having Christmas music on the hospital radios for weeks, but Brian liked to deck the halls of the CD player with Placido Domingo and Renée Fleming and Kiri Te Kanawa (come to think of it, she did too). "I'll get it," said Grace. Brian had baked sugar cookies in the shapes of candy canes and Christmas trees—Grace had tried her hardest to work up enthusiasm for putting on the sprinkles and had just about succeeded. Grace opened the tin of cookies and brought it to the door with her as she thunked the double lock. "I don't hear any singing," she announced to Brian over the sound of traffic in 1946 on the TV screen.

"Huh?" asked Brian.

"Don't you think that's a little odd?"

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It was December 29th, and Miranda was glad to be nearly finished with 1999. Her husband, Bruce, an ambulance driver, had become more and more consumed by his work. Miranda's son from her first marriage, Yancy, had left for college in Texas and although it wasn't nearly as far away as it could have been—as Miranda's ex, Patrick, kept reminding her—Miranda had felt the loss keenly. That year she had spent as a stay-at-home mom without being a mom to anyone, for the first time in nearly 20 years. "Please let next year be better," she had prayed fervently at Christmas dinner, hands clasped equally with Yancy on her left and Bruce on her right.

"Mom . . ." Yancy had said uncertainly, trying to shake his hand from hers. "You're squeezing too tight."

Bruce had glanced up then through his thick eyelashes, mouth open and uncertain though his head was still bowed as they said grace. Miranda had nodded imperceptibly at him. "Amen," he had added.

Miranda had been adamant: Yancy had had to leave to spend the rest of the Christmas holidays with Patrick and his new wife in Los Angeles, and so when he did, on the morning of the 27th, Miranda had taken down the fake Christmas tree and each burnished bauble, each imbued with so many memories. Bruce had tried to talk her out of it, but because he had to go to work that evening, and the next, and the next, and the next, he had given up and let her have her way. "Say something," she had muttered under her breath as the tears streaked down her face and through her long red-gold hair. He had walked out of the room, shaking his head at her as she collected the tiny gold stars and put them back into their tissue paper wrapping. He had closed the door to the bedroom, softly, and she could hear the radio playing.

It had been Bruce who had suggested they go out to lunch together. The 29th was still awash—everywhere but the house—in the colors of optimistic yuletide: fake snow piled on shop windows and painted snowmen and Santas, gold foil bows and tinsel, ubiquitous tinsel. This was certainly true of the Viennese café which Miranda had always admired—and had made no secret of admiring. Bruce, on the other hand, was, Miranda admitted, more of a man's man. He liked cold Coors in his favorite bar and steak and eggs at his favorite weekend breakfast diner. Their schedules rarely coincided, so they had learned to live with this dichotomy of opinion. "That little café you like so much," he had said, apropos of nothing after dinner the day Yancy had left. "Let's go for lunch."

Miranda had blinked at him and stared hard. Bruce was known throughout the profession for a wry-to-non-existent sense of humor; she knew this from having hosted parties for other ambulance driver's wives. Was this a manifestation? "I'm serious," he had said pleadingly. Then he had actually taken her hand in his.

The lunch had been, much to her surprise, enjoyable. She hadn't been close to tears a single time. Her husband was being kind and thoughtful in a way that made her realize he had never stopped being kind and thoughtful. "You know that I'm very proud of you," she said. Dressed up slightly in a chambray shirt and charcoal-colored slacks, he looked awkward, for the deep lines and fractured angles of his weathered face seemed much more at home in his ambulance, not the delicate curves of the Viennese café. "It's not an easy job, I know."

"Yancy will grow out of it," Bruce said all in a torrent, his eyes on the floor. "It's his first year away from home. Give him time. We were all like that. Stop blaming yourself."

Miranda smiled at him and wrapped her hand around the warm cup of Italian coffee. She was about to reply, but the noise from a nearby table distracted her. Two men were arguing, although one—who had a high-pitched, rather nasal voice—was doing most of the arguing, while the other merely persuaded in a warm, seductive tone.

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"May I help you?" Grace asked, after having stood in front of the door with the tin of cookies for several seconds. The figure on the threshold was not singing and was not, as far as Grace could tell, dressed like a caroler. She had none of the faux Victorian trappings (bonnet, cape, gloves, hoop skirt, candle-lit lantern). She did look like she would fill out a faux Victorian carolling outfit rather well, or was it that she looked slightly like an idealized version of Santa's elves? She had an oval face and huge dark eyes and a tiny mouth—what had the poem said? "A cute little mouth drawn up like a bow"?

"Um, yes. I am going door to door . . . uh . . . caroling," said the young woman with enormous dark eyes. She was in fact wearing a red parka with fake fur lining, tight jeans and high-heeled boots. Grace gave her a few more seconds of disbelief. "Fa la la la la la la la," the girl sang nervously, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. Grace frowned and was about to shut the door. "Wait! Wait! Please! I'm not selling anything!"

"Well, what do you want?" Grace asked, getting slightly irritated. Her pinot noir was still untouched in her glass.

"I'm looking for the Doctor," said the girl.

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At the table in the Viennese restaurant, Captain Jack Harkness was getting nowhere with Professor Wagg. "Come on, Professor," he had said charmingly, tilting his head to its best advantage. "I'm not taking no for an answer." Jack was slightly overdressed for the occasion—a full-fledged tuxedo with a snappy black bow tie—but he had an important engagement that evening in the same venue as the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus and he intended to leave nothing to chance.

Wagg was eating his third pain au chocolat and dabbing frugally at his whiskery chin with his napkin, paying Jack's dazzling smile no heed. "I'm sorry, Mr Harkness, but the answer is no." He held up his hand perfunctorily to stem the flow of Jack's repartee. "No to seeing the beryllium clock before the launch on New Year's Eve—Torchwood has received an invitation to that party—"

"I fully intend to be there—"

"No to recruiting for your organization from my scientists. No to my visiting your headquarters."

Jack, undeterred, glanced upwards to the lintel of the front door to the café. "What about the mistletoe?"

Wagg's eyebrows flattened. i"_No/i_ to the mistletoe!"

"Can't blame a guy for trying," said Jack with a wink. Then he threw down his napkin. "Waiter! Check please!"

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"I'm a doctor," said Grace, looking at the girl with concern now. She stepped forward on the threshold and joined the girl on the steps, closing, but not shutting, the door behind her. "What's wrong?"

"You're a doctor?" repeated the girl, squinting.

"I'm a cardiologist," replied Grace somewhat coldly.

"Right," said the girl, relief flooding into her face. She checked her wristwatch. "Sorry. There's been a bit of a mistake."

"Wait, do you need a doctor or not?"

"Not-not a cardiologist," said the girl, starting to back away down the steps. "Thank you, though. I'm just going to go. Happy Christmas!" It wasn't until she said that that Grace realized that she was British.

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In the Viennese café, Miranda fingered her wedding band. Finishing his cup of coffee, Bruce was doing the same. Miranda watched over his shoulder as the spectacularly handsome man in a tuxedo swept out of the café with a self-conscious smile. "Maybe I could go back to work," she offered.

Bruce's brow furrowed but he said nothing as he drained his cup of the last drop. "As what?"

"I don't know, I was a pretty good typist in my day." She shrugged. "You wouldn't feel the burden quite so much, you wouldn't be the only one bringing in money, and I could feel . . . like I was doing something worthwhile."

"Honey," said Bruce, pain cracking deep wrinkles into his forehead. But he didn't continue; he was momentarily distracted by a loud and excited "I got it for you!" from further inside the Viennese café's booths.

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Grace had written off the girl as drunk or high and had closed the door after she fled, methodically replacing the top on the tin of cookies. "What about the carolers?" Brian enquired drowsily. Grace did not go back to the sofa and her glass of wine. She stood standing by the door. Should she have run after the girl? Maybe she needed help. It was Christmas Eve . . .

It was another commercial break, and Brian got up from the sofa to refill his glass of wine. Grace still stood brooding at the front door, and Brian squeezed past her to open the tin of cookies and indelicately stuff two in his mouth. "Sit down," he said between bites of cookie.

"No, I can't," said Grace decidedly, reaching for her coat on its hanger.

"Where are you going?" asked Brian incredulously.

"I'm sorry, I'll . . . I'll just be a minute," she replied. The air was crisp and cool outside, and the door closing softly drowned out the sound of Bedford Falls.

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In the Viennese café, Grace tried not to stare at the small rectangular box that Brian had beside him on the table between plates of buttery stollen and a tall, slender cup of thick Swiss hot chocolate. The box was made of silver foil and wrapped carefully with a red fabric ribbon with a small jingle bell attached. Brian had been carrying it around since they'd arrived at the café, ostentatiously fingering it as they ordered at the counter and sat down in the seat nearest to the small but surprisingly warm fire. (What did a restaurant in San Francisco need a fire for? At least the holiday greenery which hung above lent the area near the kitchen a fragrant smell that had nothing to do with dollops of cream or fat.) It was too long and narrow a box to contain what she dreaded, an engagement ring. But could it be an equally expensive diamond necklace?

That Christmas Eve and Christmas Day had not gone as well as they'd hoped. Grace had unsuccessfully tried to track the elf girl down. She'd been so embarrassed on her return that she had aimlessly walked—yes, walked—the hills of San Francisco on her own, watching the streams of children and parents going to family services at their local churches, then the wreaths and lights and displays that hovered in front of many houses. So many wreaths, from the gaudy to the subdued, and so many displays, from gilt lettering in windows that spelled "Merry Christmas" to Santa's sleigh and reindeer made out of glittering light bulbs. She had almost willed her pager to ring, to extricate her from this mess.

When she had returned home, i_It's a Wonderful Life/i _had run its course, the Christmas tree lights had been turned off, and Brian had slunk off to bed. He had managed most of the bottle of pinot noir on his own, but for sheer perversity, Grace drank the rest and chased it with a glass of cold milk and a sugar cookie from the tin. She slept on the sofa covered in her coat.

Christmas Day must have dawned early, but both Grace and Brian, suffering from respective hang-overs, did not rise until the sun was a watery gold in the pale winter sky. There was a small pile of prettily wrapped presents under the tree—Grace always had her secretary wrap hers for her; she was hopeless at that kind of thing—but neither stirred to unwrap them until the sun had gone down. Both mumbled apologies and changed into formal wear. They were attending a Christmas Day dinner at Mr. Swift's house, an invitation that could not be ignored. They drank Seltzer water and cranberry juice.

Their Christmas was actually on the 26th, and much better it was for it. Grace and Brian took turns phoning their friends and family to wish them tardy compliments of the season. They opened their presents to each other cordially. Brian had to return to work on the 27th and 28th, and Grace was on call, but they decided to make the Christmas disaster up to each other on the 29th with a romantic day just spent together. That was before Grace caught sight of the box.

"This is for you," said Brian, as he sipped his hot chocolate.

"I thought we exchanged gifts already," said Grace nervously. She was already wearing the silver and turquoise earrings Brian had gotten her.

"This was something I saved til the last minute," he replied. "I got it for you!"

Grace cleared her throat and unwrapped the ribbon, then opened the box. Inside were two tickets to see Puccini's i_Madam Butterfly/i _at the San Francisco Opera House the next evening. "i_Madam Butterfly/i_!" Grace exclaimed. It was her favorite opera, and she had never seen it in San Francisco before. "Oh Brian!" she cried. She didn't want to ruin the moment by explaining that she was on call the night of the 30th.

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Miranda turned away and blushed as she saw the young professional couple from the table nearest the fireplace kiss in a passionate embrace. "I love you," she said to Bruce.

"Snoring and all?" he asked.

"Snoring and all," she replied.

THE END


End file.
